


our bodies thrown in time

by nobirdstofly



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Cliche, M/M, Oral Sex, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobirdstofly/pseuds/nobirdstofly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q pulls the t-shirt over his head, somehow managing to make an even better wreck of his hair. Q shrugs, and Bond does not memorize the way his collarbone shifts under his thin skin. “Endothermic efficiency,” is all Q offers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our bodies thrown in time

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for QBond's Mission00Q over on Tumblr. Prompt: "The 'having-to-share-a-bed'-trope and Q not being able to handle it."
> 
> Title from Bloc Party's "Prayer."

Q tilts his chin up, a little defiant, probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “I can sleep on the floor.”

Bond rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. There isn’t even a spare blanket. I don’t need you complaining all day tomorrow about your back or tossing all night because you’re freezing.”

“So leave your suit on and give me the blanket. And if one of us is closer to arthritis, I’d dare say it’s not me.”

“It’s -18 outside, and in here it’s,” Bond pauses, checks the ancient thermostat, “4? Q, we’re 4 points away from literally freezing. If neither of us wants to die an undignified, uncomfortable death, we are sharing this bed.”

“I’m making a pocket-sized space heater,” Q mutters.

“What, now?” Bond asks incredulously, looking about as if there’s something useful in the room.

Q cottons on to his mocking and says, “I’m also never accompanying you to bloody Siberia again. This isn’t even a country. It’s a wasteland of icicles and awful. And this isn’t a hotel. It’s a hovel with barely working heat.”

Q sniffs, and Bond isn’t sure if it’s derisive or if Q’s trying to prevent a dripping nose. Both are equally likely. “I thought being an agent was supposed to be glamorous.”

Bond laughs, a full deep laugh that surprises him, because Q knows as good as him that there’s nothing particularly glamorous about MI6, no matter how they dress it up. Q smiles, and starts to shed his clothing. Once he wrestles off the massive down parka, he pulls down the zipper on something fleece, to reveal another fleece underneath, then a jumper that as he attempts to pull over his head, statics his hair into a state and, more to the point, exposes a—

“Is that _another_ jumper?” Bond is faintly amazed by the amount of layers.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Q mutters, a shiver forcing its way through his thin body, making it more difficult for him to pull the second jumper in question off.

Bond’s been too distracted with the fact that Q apparently has been wearing 5 to 7 inches of padding since they left London to ask the obvious. “What _are_ you doing?”

“To achieve optimal thermoregulation, and by that homeostasis, we have to share body heat.” Bond’s staring at him, so Q rolls his eyes and says, “Endothermic reactions? You must know—”

“I know,” Bond interrupts him. “I just wanted to make sure you were saying what I thought you were. If you really wanted to get me naked, we could’ve done it somewhere warmer. In a decent hotel, or perhaps not in Russia.”

Q is down to what must be his last layers, a dark green, finely knit thermal, teal, long sleeve shirt, and finally a white, v-neck t-shirt. He sits in the lone chair in the room and pulls off his boots and snow pants, and Bond isn’t surprised to see chunky socks and tight, plaid trousers. Underneath those are fitted, charcoal pants and knee-high cobalt and white argyle socks.

Q looks up to find him staring and warns, levelly, “If you make a matryoshka joke, I’ll kill you with your own gun.”

“Thought it was coded to my palm print.”

Q only smirks. Bond shrugs out of his own parka, jacket, suit coat, and gets to work on the small buttons of his shirt.

“I was actually going to say I was surprised you weren’t wearing braces for your socks,” Bond offers, and the snorting laugh Q makes is one he didn’t mean to, judging by the horrified look on his face.

Bond finishes undressing while Q double checks the lock and his makeshift security system, as if Bond hadn’t already done that himself. Q fidgets for a moment, pulling down on his shirt as if somehow that will hide the line of his hipbones, which the fabric of his pants are doing some favors to, as far as Bond is concerned. It’s not as if Bond didn’t know Q was small, but it is entirely possible that Q always wears several layers, because Bond’s never noticed his shoulder blades sticking out quite that much when moving under his cardigans, nor the thin layer of muscle that moves with them.

They both climb into the bed on opposite sides, Q closer to the door, Bond to the window. Bond wonders if it was a conscious decision of Q’s to be farther away from the elements and closer to his tech. They lie facing each other, and Q still has his glasses on, so they’re actually looking at one another, thin sheet and the heavy, insulated quilt drawn up to their chins. Q sighs, and takes off his glasses, rolling over to reach behind him and put them on the otherwise empty nightstand, not bothering to fold them. He turns back to Bond, and his fingers are interlocked, just under his jaw, and Bond can barely see both his bird-like wrists and the hollow of his throat and collarbone over them.

Q isn’t fragile. Bond knows this. Has known this since he first met him, spots or no spots. Q doesn’t design tech or weapons that he doesn’t know how to use. Q carries weapons just as often as Bond does: a gun or a knife or maybe an explosive pen when he gets bored. Q isn’t vulnerable, and he isn’t a target. He’s just as deadly if not deadlier than Bond himself, and Bond’s sure Q uses the world’s ability to underestimate him as a tool.

All the same, Q shivers again, and reaches below the covers, and Bond gets a confusing urge both to warm him up and _warm him up_. Q struggles with something out of sight, and finally his arms appear again, elbows first, crossed over each other, as Q pulls the t-shirt over his head, somehow managing to make an even better wreck of his hair.

Q shrugs, and Bond does not memorize the way his collarbone shifts under his thin skin. “Endothermic efficiency,” is all Q offers.

Bond clears his throat and takes off his own undershirt, with slightly more grace, followed by his pants, and Q’s not looking at him after Bond drops both on the floor. Bond doesn’t know if Q’s nervous or if it’s just because Q wouldn’t be able to see him that well without his glasses. Bond keeps staring until Q does look up, and his eyes are still sharp, but definitely less focused. Bond really, really wants to know if it’s near-blindness or something else, but Q speaks before he can speculate more.

“Get the light, will you?”

The single lamp is on Bond’s nightstand, and he clicks it off, lets his eyes adjust with help from the light coming in around rattling shutters, before facing Q. He catches the tail end of Q licking his lips, just the hint of tongue, and Bond knows that’s something he does unconsciously, because he’s seen it when Q’s particularly close to solving something tricky.

“What now?” Q asks.

Bond feels the arousal that’s been slowly building inside him unfurl to more of a low burn all through his body, a dark undercurrent of want. Dark and warmer than the room, and he says nothing. This isn’t his decision, his move, to make. So he waits.

Q tugs the blanket up farther, says, “ _Oh_ ,” and makes an aborted move to reach his right hand out to Bond. He stops with his fingers six inches from Bond’s chest, and they’re both hyper-aware of it, even though his hand is invisible under the blankets.

“Turn over,” Bond tells him, voice rough.

Q looks confused and more than a little put out, but does as he’s told, for once. Bond waits a beat before smoothly sliding over, fitting himself to Q’s frame, and Q sucks in a breath and holds it, tension in every muscle.

“Thought you wanted to get warm,” Bond says, in his ear. Q shivers, and Bond doubts that it’s from the cold anymore. Bond runs a hand from Q’s chest, down his ribs, and up to rest on his hip. Bond’s hand is just large enough that his middle finger rests just inside the bone, and the heel of his hand presses into the back of it. His palm cradles the jut of it, and Bond squeezes, pressing the tips of his fingers into the soft flesh, and Q lets out the breath he’s been holding in a moan.

“Yeah?” Bond asks, and nearly gets hit in the face as Q flings himself onto his back in rapid response, getting both hands around Bond’s jaw to drag him into a kiss.

Bond growls and uses his body to push Q into the uncomfortable mattress, wedging himself between Q’s thighs, and tries to swallow every sound Q makes. Q is panting, his long fingers pressing into Bond’s deltoid muscles, trying to force himself closer.

When Bond pulls back, minutely, to bite at Q’s throat, Q says, so soft Bond almost misses it, “ _Please_.”

“Please what?”

Q looks more than a little lost, but he rolls his hips against Bond’s, his erection brushing against Bond’s stomach, and Bond decides for him.

He makes his way down Q’s front, kissing and biting, because the latter forces these exquisite noises out of Q’s chest—deep, guttural sounds that Bond commits to memory.

“Wait. Stop.”

Bond does, completely still, mouth on Q’s hipbone, one hand on Q’s thigh, the other working down his grey pants.

“The blanket,” Q says, weakly. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to freeze before I ever get off unless you give me the blanket.”

Bond laughs and lets Q tug the quilt back up to his chin, over Bond’s head. But then Q keeps pulling until they’re both underneath it. It’s dark and stuffy, and Bond doesn’t know that he’s ever been warmer or more turned on.

“Cosy,” Q says, and Bond can tell he’s smirking, even if the second syllable goes soft as Bond finishes pulling down his pants enough to get his mouth around the first bit of Q’s cock.

Bond isn’t slow or careful about it. He wraps a tight fist around the base and laves his tongue around the shaft, back and forth as he moves his head up and down. He uses his free hand to press into the space just inside Q’s hipbone again, his fingers stretching wide enough to push into both sides at once, because he’s learning quickly that Q likes that. A lot. He keeps a constant pressure there, holding Q down, and after an indeterminable passing of time, Q reaches down for Bond, lightly touching Bond’s cheek, his jaw, Q’s hand shaking. Eventually Q runs a thumb around Bond’s mouth, and Bond opens his lips a little wider and somehow manages to lick at Q’s thumb.

“Fuck,” Q curses near-silently, and comes, still holding Bond’s head carefully, his other hand entangled with the one Bond had been using to hold him down. Q is all quiet gasps and shivers, his body spasming as Bond sucks him through it, waits until Q is pushing away to stop. He drops a kiss on Q’s inner thigh and bodily crawls back up to where he can kiss Q’s mouth instead.

Q whines and snakes a clever hand down to Bond’s erection, pumping him firmly, with just the right pressure, and Bond wants to know if this is another thing that Q is absurdly talented at, or if he somehow deduced exactly how Bond likes his handjobs just from reading his confidential file. Then Bond mostly stops thinking and gives into Q, rolling his hips to help out, biting Q’s jaw just this side of too hard. Q yelps and his hand tightens, and Bond comes.

He wishes he could see it, all over Q’s long fingers and flat stomach, jutting ribcage. Instead he rolls off him and grabs his undershirt from where he’d thrown it earlier. Q is sitting up, the covers pooled around his waist, and when Bond hands him the shirt, Q methodically cleans his hand and abdomen, smiling faintly in Bond’s general direction. He hands the shirt back, careful to ball the soiled part inside so Bond doesn’t have to touch it, and grins fully.

“Well,” he ventures, “goodnight, then.” And he shuffles back onto his side, facing the door, his narrow back to Bond. Bond follows him, yanking the covers around both of them, again fitting himself to Q’s back, pushing his kneecaps into the back of Q’s own knees. He places a heavy hand, under the heavy quilt, over Q’s hip, murmurs, “‘Night,” and hopes Q’s not a restless bed partner.


End file.
